Rock Bottom Isn't the End
by crockercorpcutie
Summary: Kids struggle with eating disorders, alcoholism, depression, and anxiety. It's tough, but hey. They're the alphas.


Your name is Jane Crocker and suddenly the sight of your sandwich is making you sick. The boy passing by called you fat and ugly and you realize- not for the first time- that he's right. You throw the rest of your lunch in the trash and fight back tears.

That night, you vow to get better. You are lonely and disgusting and unwanted and you can only change that if you quit eating so much cake, goddamnit. It's hard and you're angry and the words 'fat ugly whore' ring in your head day after day until you're broken.

You've spent the last three nights crying yourself to sleep with a plate full of cake. No matter how hard you try, you can't quit baking them and you definitely can't quit eating them. You clutch at white porcelain as your stomach turns itself inside out. You're not sick at all.

You tell yourself that you are a strong girl. Finally, you mustered the willpower to stop making cakes. Your father asks why you've given up on your hobby, and you tell him you've changed. He doesn't know that every meal he makes for her ends up in trash bins and toilets. But at least you're finally becoming healthy. It's all for the better.

Today is the first time a stranger compliments you in ages. He says that you're pretty, a litle sheepishly. You don't believe him. He has to be lying. It's some sick joke. You're disgusting, can't he tell? You can't help being angry. You spend the rest of the day hating him. You decide to dedicate every time your stomach is emptied to each person that made you feel like shit. And that's a lot of people.

You've shed twenty pounds in just two months. It certainly doesn't look like it, though, so you cut down from one meal a day to nearly none. When you feel lightheaded, you eat a few grapes, or some cheese. After a week of this you can't stand it and bake a cake. Half of it reaches your stomach, but it doesn't stay there. Your face is wet with tears and sweat and snot and vomit and you are a revolting human being. It's three in the morning.

It's a Friday night and you're getting ready for your very first party. Your friends are slipping into stunning tube dresses that barely cover their rears. You choose to cover the cellulite on your thighs with pants and hide your stomach rolls with a button up shirt and tie. You're not striving for modesty, masculinity, or comfort. You simply aren't attractive enough to dress like the other girls. But when you arrive at the party, everyone is dancing and you don't feel as alone. People talk to you over loud music, you sip some beer, you go out to the dance floor. It's fun and everyone else's dance moves are so bad you don't feel self conscious at all. A few minutes later, you're dizzy and have to sit down. You upchuck that mouthful of beer and dry heave for a while. Now everyone's eyes are on you and your head is spinning and you have to get out of there you have to get out where is the door where is your bag. Friends try to console you, make you stay, but you're convinced it's so everyone can laugh at you some more. You call your dad to come pick you up and when you're finally home he doesn't ask why your mascara has formed black trails down your cheeks, just holds you until you feel strong enough to let go.

You are stepping on a scale for the ninth time this week. It's only a two pound difference and you aren't satisfied. A tiny voice in the back of your brain asks when you will be satisfied. You don't listen.

After that night, your life is measured in calories and pounds instead of days. It's hard, calculating the exact amount of salad you can eat without passing out, and it all hits the toilet if you overstep it. Thank god you don't have to take P.E. anymore. You don't cry anymore, and you don't throw up. 'Hungry' never crosses your mind. This is life now. Waiting. Waiting for your fat rolls and flab to melt away into hipbones and ribs. Waiting to feel beautiful.

It's finally happened. People have been complimenting you. "Have you lost weight?" "You look so nice today!" "You've got such a nice figure." You smile and thank them and drink in the praise. But that evening you stand naked in front of the mirror and realize your upper arms still jiggle, your calves are bulky, your hips are laced with stretch marks. It's not good enough. You're not good enough. You have to wait some more.

The compliments have slowed down. Everyone is realizing that skinnier is not better- at least not in your case. You don't have the energy to stand up straight or put on makeup to cover the purple bags under your eyes. People see the way your ribs stick out when you wear a swimsuit and how your legs look like twigs. The color from your face is gone; the light from your eyes dimmed to a dull blue-grey. You wonder what's missing. Why can't they see how hard you've worked for this? You still don't feel beautiful. It hurts and you feel like crying but your body is too tired to produce any tears. You're so tired of this.

Finally, after an entire year of miserable hunger and self hatred and bile, you're getting help. It's so humiliating, being trucked away from school in an ambulance. Everyone will know. Everyone will be talking. You're glad you were unconscious for that part. When you wake up there are tubes hooked up to your arms and your dad is sitting in a chair next to your bed. He looks sad and tired, but when you stir his face lights up with relief. You grab his hand, clutching his fingers with all the strength you have left. He has questions, you can tell, but he says you should get some rest. You do.

Hospitalization has landed you in a billion check-ups and appointments with doctors and therapists and nutrition experts. Recovery sure is a lot of work, but at least you're getting better. For the first week, everything you tried to eat on your own just came back up. You cried for the first time in ages, and it actually made you happy. Each day, you held down more and more food, and after a month you started looking healthy again. Finally, you regain the figure you had and hated before. You adore your soft, squishy rear and relish the stretch marks tracing patterns along your skin. Your collarbones are swallowed and you don't care in the least because you are fat and you are wonderful.

Your name is Jane Crocker and you are beautiful.


End file.
